The Toyotomi Blades (11 page)

“Could you identify these men?”

“I think so. I’ve seen them for the past two nights.”

Ishii made no comment. He went to a shelf and took down two large books. He put them in front of me and flipped them open. Mug books, with several rows of pictures on each page. “Please look at these pictures. If you see the men, tell me.”

I nodded and Ishii left to get himself a cup of tea. The room we were in had no private offices. Instead there was a small area with a couple of plastic-covered couches. The rest of the office was filled with small metal desks jammed together in rows, similar to the television station. Ishii’s desk sat at the end facing a row of desks, which probably meant he was a supervisor or section chief for investigators. His business card, which was in Japanese, wasn’t much help to me in figuring out the hierarchy. The room was incredibly cluttered, with white boards on the walls with various notes and charts. The floor was linoleum, and although it was old, it was spotless. Uniformed officers were coming in, making jokes, drinking tea, sitting down, and working on reports. They wore a gray military-style uniform.

I started the tedious task of flipping through the books, page by page, looking at the individual photos. After forty minutes I called Ishii back to me and pointed at a picture in the book.

“I’m sure this is one of the men who chased me.”

Ishii glanced down at the photo. I noted a look of surprise. “This one?”

“This one. I’m positive. There was another guy with him, quite a bit taller and thinner. I didn’t see his picture in these two books.”

Ishii went to another section of the squad room and returned with another mug book. “Please look at this book. See if you can identify the other man.” This time he stood over my shoulder as I flipped through the book. About a quarter of the way through I found the guy with the wolfish gait. I looked up at Ishii and said, “That’s him.”

Ishii sat down. “Could you explain exactly what you’re doing in Japan?”

That seemed a peculiar question, but I told him I was appearing on the
News Pop
television show.

“Are you some type of political activist in the United States?”

“No, I’m just here because I got involved in the murder of a Japanese businessman. That’s why they want me on
News Pop.”

He looked at me and said, “It’s strange.”

“What’s strange?”

Ishii pointed to the picture of the thin man. “The first books were known thieves and muggers. The man you identified is a thug named Junichi Honda. He has ties to the Yakuza and a variety of radical political groups. This book has pictures of known members of radical groups.” He pointed to the second picture I identified. “This is a picture of Kim Chung Hee,” he said. “Does that name mean anything to you?”

I looked at him quizzically. I shrugged.

“Early in his career, Kim was a Yakuza, a Japanese Mafia member. Then he became interested in right-wing politics and he joined the
Nippon Tokkotai.”

“Nippon …?”

“Nippon Tokkotai.”

“What’s that?”

“It means Japanese Special Attack Force.”

“Sounds like a military group.”

“It’s a radical political group. Tokkotai was what they called the
Shimpu
attack forces in the Pacific War. Americans called them
Kamikaze.
Nippon is an old-fashioned word for Japan. It’s a very conservative word. Now we usually use Nihon. The Nippon Tokkotai is a right-wing group that wants to restore what they consider Japanese virtues, or
Yamato Damashii,
the Japanese spirit. They don’t like the West and want to return to pure Japanese culture.”

“They’re a right-wing group?”

“Yes. Like in the United States, Japan has both right-wing and left-wing groups. But in Japan the groups on the far right are not just conservatives. They are interested in a militaristic and aggressive Japan, just like before the Pacific War. They don’t like Japan’s current role in the world, and think we should return to prewar thinking and attitudes. They sometimes use violence to make their point. Right now we have these people crashing cars into government buildings to show their protest over current government policies.”

“Isn’t Kim a Korean name?”

“Yes. It may seem strange, but many Koreans are involved in radical Japanese right-wing groups. It comes from their involvement with the Yakuza. You’re sure you’re not active in politics in the United States?”

“Not really. I vote and that’s about it. I’m just here in Japan to appear on a television show.”

“In your television interview you didn’t say anything about the Emperor, did you?”

“I haven’t been interviewed yet. That’s in a couple of days. I’ve just been in a promotional spot where I say goran kudasai. The subject of the Emperor hasn’t come up during my entire stay in Japan. What does the Emperor have to do with this?”

“Japanese right-wing groups, including the Nippon Tokkotai, have tried to assassinate politicians who have said negative things about the Emperor or Japan’s involvement in the war. If you’re not active in politics and you haven’t done anything to anger them while you’re in Japan, I don’t know why they would be after you. Maybe it’s a case of mistaken identity.”

“The way they’ve followed me for the past two nights doesn’t sound like a mistake to me. You said both men also have Yakuza connections?”

“Yes.”

“That could be the link. I recently put the son of the leader of the Sekiguchi-gummi in jail.”

“That’s one of the biggest crime families in Japan.”

“Could they want to take revenge on me for that? Or maybe try to intimidate me into not testifying at the trial back in the States?”

Ishii shrugged. “It’s a possibility.”

“Are you going to bring the two men in for questioning?”

“What for? They didn’t do anything yet. If we brought them in we couldn’t hold them. They’ll have friends who will swear they were with them at the time you were chased.”

“Then I should have let them catch me and beat the hell out of me, or maybe stick a knife in me?”

For the first time, I saw Ishii smile. “That would make a stronger case. If you had witnesses. And they would testify.” So much for Sugimoto’s stories about the Japanese police acting like that Chinese emperor willing to kill two innocent men to assure that a third guilty party was punished. Ishii wasn’t even willing to bring the two guys in for questioning. I guess he figured that in a few days I’d be out of the country and the problem would literally go away.

I took a cab back to the hotel. My walking days in Tokyo were over.

12
      

I
t was late when I finally got back to the hotel. I thought of calling Mariko, but it would be early in the morning L.A. time and I didn’t want to wake her. Instead, I spent a restless night. When I did sleep I had bad dreams of being chased. It didn’t take a psychiatrist to figure out where that came from. Like many Asians, I place great store in dreams, but these dreams were neither illuminating nor prescient. They were simply disturbing. I woke tired the next morning and placed a call to Mariko at the Kawashiri Boutique.

“Kawashiri Boutique.” The connection was extremely clear. It was Mrs. Kawashiri.

“Hi, Mrs. Kawashiri. This is Ken. Can I talk to Mariko?”

A hesitation. Then, in a funny tone, “Mariko’s not here now.”

“Is something wrong, Mrs. Kawashiri?”

“No, no, nothing is wrong. She’s just not here now. But nothing is wrong.”

“Well, tell her I called. I’ll try her at home later.”

“She might be out tonight.”

I was puzzled. “Are you sure something isn’t wrong?”

“No, she just mentioned that she’d be busy tonight. Don’t worry, Ken-san. Everything is fine.”

“All right. I hope things are going fine for you.”

“Oh yes. Thank you for asking.”

“Well, I’ll see you in a few days.”

“Yes. You’ll have to tell me about your adventures in Tokyo.”

“Don’t worry. I’m collecting plenty of adventures to tell. I’ll talk to you later. Good-bye.”

“Good-bye.”

As I was talking to Mrs. Kawashiri the message light on the phone blinked on, indicating that a call came in while I was on the line. I called the message number and an operator with impeccable English told me that Junko had called. I dialed the number the operator gave me and it was picked up on the first ring.

“Junko?”

“Yes.”

“This is Ken Tanaka.”

“I’m so glad you called right away,” Junko said excitedly. “Professor Hirota, the man who wrote the article on Kannemori swords, is back in town and he’s very anxious to talk to you and see your sword. I was hoping I could set up a meeting today.”

“Those swords are the furthest thing from my mind right now.”

“What do you mean?”

“I had an adventure last night. The two guys who chased me the night before chased me again. I’m beginning to think they might be Yakuza intent on taking revenge for the crime I solved in Los Angeles.” I explained to her what happened, including my interview with the police. We men are supposed to be strong, silent types, but it made me feel better to talk about what had happened.

“That’s very frightening,” she said. “You were very lucky that rikishi found you.”

“I found him by landing in his lap, but it was a stroke of luck that he was a fellow Hawaiian. Frankly, I’m reluctant to do more sightseeing in Tokyo with the Yakuza after me.”

“Let me talk to the producers,” Junko said. “I’m almost done with the tape introduction to your segment so you don’t have to be in town. Maybe the producers will pay for you to leave Tokyo until the show date. You can go to Nikko or someplace like that.”

“I’d feel a lot safer if that was possible. It would also be more fun than sitting in a hotel room for two days.”

“Why don’t you come down to the studio and we can discuss it,” Junko said.

“Okay, but I’m going to take a cab.”

When I got to the studio, Junko made me repeat my story in great detail. As I finished, her phone rang. Professor Hirota had arrived. “He must have rushed over,” Junko said. “I told you he sounded excited on the phone.” Junko and I went to a reception room with four leather chairs arranged around a coffee table to meet the professor.

Professor Hirota was not what I expected. Instead of some musty scholar, bent over and myopic from too many books, I saw a neatly dressed man in his early thirties carrying a Gucci portfolio under his arm, like some eager advertising executive. I stuck out my hand and he shook it. Instead of the soft hands of a scholar, I was surprised to feel the rough hands of a construction worker.

“Yukihiko Hirota,” he said. His English had a British accent to it. I’ve never met a Japanese who spoke British English instead of American English, and that surprised me.

“Ken Tanaka,” I responded.

“I’m extremely pleased that Miss Ohara called me,” he said, handing me his
meishi,
or business card. “And I have to admit that I’m bloody excited about the possibility that you might have another of the special swords made by Kannemori. I just got back in town and I had to rush over to see it.”

“Frankly, I’m excited about it, too. It’s something I picked up at a garage sale and I never anticipated that it would be worth anything more than decoration.”

“Well, I’m not a sword appraiser,” the professor said, “but if you’re interested in selling it I can introduce you to several chaps who would be anxious to buy it. The exact price would depend on the condition, but if it’s a genuine Kannemori, I’m sure it’s worth at least fifteen to twenty thousand dollars, American.”

That surprised me. A windfall.

“Is the sword here?” The professor’s eyes had a gleam of youthful excitement, like a little boy before Christmas.

“I’ll get it,” Junko said. “Why don’t you two sit down and relax. I’ll also get us some tea.”

That the professor jumped into business before some of the Japanese social preliminaries were handled was surprising to me, but I had already concluded that Hirota was a rather interesting man. We both sat down in the chairs around the coffee table, with Hirota putting his portfolio on the table.

“Your English has a British tinge to it,” I remarked.

“Yes. People often comment on it. I studied comparative history at Cambridge for two years and I picked up the accent there. To tell you the truth, I’ve made an effort to keep it because it rather enhances my image in academic circles. There’s nothing like an English accent to make even the most banal statement sound reasoned and scholarly. It’s pulled my chestnuts out of the fire on more than one occasion when I’ve made a silly ass of myself in front of colleagues at conferences or such where we use English. Instead of branding me as a dunce, the accent causes them to nod sagely, as if I have just made a singularly intelligent statement.”

I laughed and he joined in.

“Are you a sword enthusiast?” he asked.

“No, not unless you count samurai movies.”